


if you wanna start a fight

by alexanger



Series: good/bad/dirty [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9396737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/pseuds/alexanger
Summary: hamilton watches jefferson when he thinks no one will notice.jefferson is a lion, but so is he -





	

They're bad for each other, and he knows this. 

He knows this, and yet - 

When they're toe to toe, squared up, they're bestial and snarling. Each knows that, given an open enough angle, neither would hesitate to seek the jugular, lunge, and tear. 

And yet - 

Maybe that's the draw. There's no fancy doublespeak with him, no hidden meanings. Anyone could appreciate the bare intentions and up front aggression. Jefferson is a lion, but so is he - they snap, they roar, and in the display there is truth. There is honesty. It's real and solid, something he can savour. 

There's satisfaction in the kill. 

And yet - 

When Hamilton dreams, he dreams of glittering teeth and iron.

 

* * *

 

And so what if he looks? Looking isn't action. He can appreciate the fine figure of Jefferson in his breeches - his  _ fucking  _ velvet breeches, his absurd purple coat, badly chosen. He is a clown in those clothes and Hamilton mocks but secretly - 

Jefferson has well turned calves. Gracefully curved ankles. A sign of virility. 

Every so often Hamilton loses the thread of conversation and must bluster and bullshit to track it. In these moments, Jefferson's eyes shine. 

Hamilton feels known. 

He feels like a hounded stag.

 

* * *

 

Weakness. He is vulnerable to teeth and iron. 

What creature is it that is vulnerable to iron? Hamilton mulls this over as he suffers through listening to Jefferson strut and preen. Something small, he thinks. Something gauzy, light. 

He does not think  _ dainty. _

He wonders idly if Jefferson has noticed his new stockings, tight to the point of provocation. He wonders if puffing out his chest might make an impression. He is a soldier at the core, and though he has gone softer since the end of the war - a war Jefferson did not fight - he is still, underneath, lean muscle. Were he offered a sword his hands would remember how to meld with the hilt. 

Fairies. Fairies and iron. 

Hamilton thinks the word  _ fairy _ and feels ill.

 

* * *

 

Hamilton does not preen. He boasts and swaggers. There is a difference. 

In his heart, though, he wonders if there really is much separating him from Jefferson. Both of them have something to prove. 

But Jefferson - Jefferson is spoilt, Jefferson is antagonistic, Jefferson is smarmy and conceited and infuriating. His clothes  _ must _ be a farce,  _ must  _ be a projection. They scream superiority. Someone that sure of his own importance doesn't  _ need  _ to care how he looks. 

Hamilton needs to care. He hears what people say: they call him an animal, a braggart, a bastard. They smear his name and his origins and they speculate, they look at his lack of pedigree and his lack of title and his lack of coattails to ride upon. 

So - he has no pedigree. He has no lineage. His legacy is his own and he has nothing but what he has built with his own hands. 

He does not envy Jefferson. He cannot envy Jefferson. 

But he can wonder what his own life might have been like, had he been born into an established name. 

It must be nice to have the country on your side.

 

* * *

 

There are some things they share, and these, Hamilton lists when the distance between them aches. 

Adamance. They both sink their teeth in and neither ever let go - they lock their jaws and haul. And they fray, these things they hold, gone rough around the edges, impermanent and harmed. Hamilton has done irreparable damage through his stubbornness. He knows, just as he knows the other absolute truths of the universe, that Jefferson has too. He doesn't need to ask. Doesn't need proof. 

Passion. When Jefferson speaks, fire rages behind the deep brown of his eyes, and his hands fly about as though they were birds of prey seeking flesh to tear into. He becomes predatory and harsh, all sharp edges, iron, the wet peaks of teeth. And yet it's not  _ anger _ there - it's something deeper, something older, primeval, unevolved. Hamilton knows because he feels it too, beating alongside his heart. He can't describe it but he feels it there in his chest, this dark beast that dwells within him and breathes his breath and gives him the words he needs when he makes his stance. 

Pride. Jefferson has his breeches, his walking stick, the fine hair he tosses like a mane. His swagger is that of a man who knows he is superior to everyone he greets; when he speaks, he speaks as though he were conversing with a child. Hamilton  _ understands _ because he knows the pride that is born of fear - fear of inferiority, fear of irrelevance, fear of fading away in plain sight. 

And then there are secrets. Hamilton watches Jefferson's hands sometimes, fixates on the wrist that was badly broken and clearly healed wrong. Jefferson does not deign to fight with his hands so how would he have broken that wrist? Hamilton knows split knuckles and splinted fingers and he looks like it, has the hunger to fight in his eyes and his veins. He can't imagine Jefferson throwing a punch. Can't imagine Jefferson would even know how. So then, how? 

And Hamilton has his secrets too. He has - 

Well -

 

* * *

 

The secret chafes during the day but at night it turns soft and nestles dovelike against his sternum. There's something in his bones. Lilacs behind his eyes. He does not weep, although he could. 

Hamilton is sweet, in these moments, pliant and loose, threadbare flannel, frayed yarn. Perhaps one might hear him purr beneath a loving hand. 

In these moments he turns his softness to his wife and she responds in kind, although wary, always wary, of another betrayal. He sinks into her body and breathes her name; she arches back against him and holds him tight. There is desperation in her shaking arms, some hint of something sour in her voice, and neither mention it but it's always there. She quivers when he whispers promises of love and devotion. 

He doesn't mind. She is right to be cautious. 

 

* * *

 

The days drag and the work never comes to an end and Hamilton throws himself into it, prepared to drown. He does not fear the numbing rumble of time thundering past, nor the pain in his wrists and his head, pounding, unceasing. The draw of leaving something unalterable and solid behind makes everything worth it.

In these moments, Hamilton  _ loathes  _ Jefferson more than ever - and it’s nothing Jefferson does, really, more his presence. Jefferson is endlessly distracting, even when he isn’t blustering or bragging. Simply the smooth turn of his head is enough to set Hamilton ablaze with anger.

What is it in the turn of his head that could incense Hamilton so? What is there in the gentle toss of that luxurious mane could rouse such bitterness and rage?

At night, Hamilton examines the stains on his hands, on his sleeves, on the handkerchiefs he keeps tucked into his palms to attempt to stem the flood of ink. They never make much of a difference, but when he unfolds his hands, he sees mirrored splotches on his skin and on the white linen. There’s something there he wants to tease out - something about echoes, about the permanence, about bleeding through - but he is exhausted, when he allows himself to relax. Working hours are so precious that he must be careful not to waste them on idle musings, and the rest of his time is for his wife, his children, his rest.

Still, the spots wander mazily behind his eyes when he sleeps. Points of glitter, like jagged peaks; spots of dark, ink swirling down into a brook.

Is the darkness iron?

Is the darkness a pair of eyes?

 

* * *

 

The key, Hamilton knows, is endurance. If he is patient, this will pass. So it has been before, and so it will be again. He must learn to contain his urges.

There is a sign - when one speaks with one’s hands, rather than one’s mouth - one that means  _ discuss _ when a single hand is in motion, but  _ fight _ when both are moving. Hamilton thinks about this, and about how, when he moves alone or Jefferson moves alone, there is stillness, a tentative peace; but the stillness is so easily broken, the hesitant truce cast aside the moment they begin to dance together.

So - end the dance. Withdraw. Pull back. If a single dancer remains then the band mocks. There is power in the act of abstaining.

He wonders, sometimes, what their friendship might be like if they could  _ discuss  _ and not  _ fight. _ If the motion could be stilled just enough that they might work together instead of butting heads.

Hamilton doesn’t dare to dream that there might be something more than friendship. Certainly nothing more than a vague acquaintanceship. He prefers not to leave things without passion, but surely a bland agreement is better than this tension.

Don’t break - don’t break - don’t break. Jefferson looks for a way in, looks for a tender point, and then digs in and  _ twists _ and the evisceration will be agonizing, so best not to give him the room. Bare nothing.

He digs his nails into his palms and bends over his writing. His quill needs sharpening, but it will last long enough to finish out the thought -

A knock on the doorframe. Hamilton glances up, expecting Washington, and blanches when he sees Jefferson.

He waits.

Jefferson looks him up and down, and flashes the barest hint of teeth in a smile. There is a suspicious lack of iron in his voice when he says, almost warmly, “good night, Hamilton.”

He leaves, and Hamilton -

Hamilton breaks.

**Author's Note:**

> hey remember how i have a billion unfinished fics? guess i should start a new series 
> 
> chat to me at [alexangery.tumblr.com](http://alexangery.tumblr.com)


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